


satellite guiding through the dark (we all fall down)

by reflectionslie (fallsink)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: 2nd person - Rey POV, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, M/M, Magical Realism, Magical Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 08:08:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13543251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallsink/pseuds/reflectionslie
Summary: protection, you learn, comes in far more forms than just sacrifice and promises(or, urban/ modern fantasy au in which you search to find a place - your place - in all of this)WARNING: minor gore, blood





	satellite guiding through the dark (we all fall down)

**Author's Note:**

> tattoo artist!au that no one asked for  
> title: the great shipwreck of life - IAMX

upon first glance, kylo would seem to be the last person one would expect to be the most sought-after tattoo artist in the outer rim underground. even if with careful examination of his proud nose and perfectly messy hair against a lean frame, it's still very hard to believe, especially considering his alabaster skin like marble – smooth, scar-free, _unmarked_.

his first clients – supernatural or human – often find it hard to accept at first, until he shakes their hand. his long guitar fingers and veined forearms below his rolled-up sleeves are the best indicator of his quiet passion – all clearly made for art. beneath these, with his warm touch and warmer eyes, most objections are swept away and laid to rest.

sometimes, though, they are still hesitant, so he asks finn – close friend since college and studio partner – to show his phoenix. it takes flight to stretch over most of his muscled back and it’s blazingly beautiful, fluid feathers curling up over his shoulders to his collarbones as well as dipping artfully across the defined hip bones. it almost breathes and flickers, as if it’s an accidental stroke away from leaving the physicality of skin entirely.

there really is no reason for kylo to try this hard to put them at ease, especially considering he has no shortage of clients (old or new), with an actively long waiting list of at least three months, last time you checked.

but he always takes great measures to make his clients feel safe – tattooing is inherently traumatizing as it is, both for the body and the spirit. this careful concern shows from the cleanliness and simplicity of his studio to the carefully chosen designs on the inspiration wall, picked for both creative aesthetics as well as mood-setting.

so he is gentle in every way his needle is not – rubbing first smooth loops of vaseline into the bare skin then pressing the stencil into place; gently asking their opinion on changes (though they never do. he’s always flawlessly precise.); laying them down into them into a comfortable position before loading pigment into the pen and cradling the instrument on black latex gloves; nudging his tools into place all within fingertip reach.

“ready?” he always asks, after giving the machinery a quick test rest run. but no can ever fit more tenderness and reassurance into two syllables than he does then. leaving no room for distance or misunderstandings in any way.

they – human or not – always nod with trusting eyes at this, so he smiles and, with a low “relax” under his breath, presses the tool to break the skin.

he’s gentle in every way his needle is not, and does his very best to pause often for breathing and adjustment, softly guiding his customers every step of the way in a low murmur barely above the buzz of machinery.

this is where you – his personal assistant – step back and listen to the dull hum, being the best assistant in not being noticed by clients until then. in his warm presence, you fill in all the gaps with ease built over hours dragged into years.

once the session is over, you take care of them as kylo stretches and rests before preparing for the next appointment. you’re always ready with the distilled water and napkins to wipe down the irritated skin and teach the customer of the aftercare routine in gentle voices, as not to startle them from the subspace of tattoo pain. then with soothing gel a light sheen beneath bandages or saran wrap over the wound and in a small tub placed in their hands, you lead them out to book their next appointment or to pay.

and he’s long stopped thanking you, only because every time the way his round eyes drop to meet yours when you return, and how he lets a small quirk peek at the corner of his lips so earnestly – it’s already gratitude enough.

you're the only one in the police department who knows about all of this, though. it's a secret that he doesn't exert great pains to keep quiet, but it remains so because of you.

you keep it close, perhaps of your shared history and personal loyalty. or perhaps, of something less noble, and more selfish.

because there is something almost protective and jealous when you watch him work that makes you want to keep it all to yourself.

the sharpening of his already unwavering concentration when the needle is too close to the line and he needs to be extra careful; the scrunch of his eyebrows when he finishes a section earlier than he plans; the quick dart of his tongue across his bottom lip as he wipes away the excess blood and ink that mix scarlet or black together.

it’s so easy to fall into all of this, into the slow methodic tap of his foot against the pedal in sync with the metallic vibrations that you feel deep in your own marrow.

even if he shares this part of himself with every client or colleague he has, you at least want to keep this double secret to yourself.

 

* * *

 

 

the graffiti starts to appear at a curious time. crime has been on the rise since many supernatural creatures had started to rebel against the new government that took new measures to oppress them into the shadows. it doesn’t take a genius to know that these are not unrelated events.

it began not when the new president had won the election by the narrowest margins in november, but when rose appeared at the tattoo studio after-hours two weeks later.

she had stumbled in, passing through the locked glass door easily with her fae magic. at first you thought she was intoxicated, before you saw the inky blood dripping from under her long sleeves.

kylo caught her just as her glamour disappeared and she fainted. you are no stranger to blood nor supernatural beings, so you’re already pulling out the distilled water and bandages from the cabinets before kylo even asked.

rose healed well in secret, the iron-made wounds on her dark fairy skin vanishing scar-free in a week thanks to kylo’s quick hand.

then nothing happened for a while, but you noticed the difference most when kylo changed the studio hours to 24/7. finn, furious that he had not been there to help rose, dropped out of his literature PhD track to take over the place, much to yours and kylo’s disapproval.

“I know what I’m doing,” finn had said, with a finality quite unlike him. “plus,” he narrowed his burning eyes at the older, “you can’t help.”

you knew finn had meant the healing qualities of his phoenix tears, but you didn’t like the way he spoke to kylo – their long friendship be damned – so you started to snap back, but kylo rested a steady hand on your shoulder.

“no, he’s right,” he murmured. “there are more productive ways I can do to help.”

something flitted in his expression when finn moved away then to answer the tinkling front door, and when kylo didn’t think you were looking. but you saw it and you thought that he was thinking the same thing as you.

cursing the humanity in your body.

 

* * *

 

 

these days, you hardly spend time away from kylo – between regular shifts at the police station, taking vigil at the studio, and cramming rotations of sleep in the few breaks you have. your co-workers teasingly ask if the two of you are dating, but you’re both too tired to refute it.

poe shows up more often with cuts and bruises nowadays, the wild rebel in him and complete disregard for rules getting him into more trouble often than not. until one night he shows up with one of his skeletal wings torn to shreds and the other completely severed off.

dragons don’t cry, but the anguish flooding at every edge of his glassy eyes makes you almost wish he could, as to maybe ease the suffering, even just a little. but it’s clearly so desperate and unbearable that he barely holds out making it through the front door, until he collapses against the counter, sinks into the pool of his own thick blood and succumbing beneath his pain.

so finn cries in his stead, both real and phoenix tears then, over poe’s unconscious body and into the wounds, his own savior complex destroying him almost more often than not. kylo bites back all the hateful things, veins popping in his arms and jaw, electing instead to smash one of the backroom window, his expression stormy. you almost stop him, but all you can think of is how fear and despair are more far toxic and destructive than any bloodstained war.

you know it becomes really bad when paige and armitage who still spit and snarl viciously at each other upon meeting – werewolf and vampire fangs bared respectively – decide to remain civil in the studio to help heal the wounded that start to pour steadily in.

because like as many of the supernatural people have come to accept, they may not share the same traditions or codes, but they at least share the same enemy.

you worry about your place in all this, but you soon learn that none of these people – or clients or anyone – blame or shun you because of your lack of magic. and kylo is the one who shows you all of this, the special space inhabited by only you, so vital to it all.

when poe makes a safe albeit slow recovery, he, paige, and rose choose to live with you, kylo, and finn together in this underground studio, now a safe haven even more now than before.

in the end, when you see them all gathered together, chatting and laughing together over simple meals and ambrosia wine stolen from government stashes, you know that family can just be six people who have made homes in each other.

 

* * *

 

 

leading this double life, as well as being the secret keeper for both you and kylo, however, becomes harder and more taxing as the days go on.

you're put in charge of studying the spray paint markings, especially the ones on the upper west side of the city where the supernatural community has now been banished to.

they’re clearly magical ones. despite having been there for weeks now, they still glisten as if they are newly splattered, even with the august sun in full force. the highlights of the colors ripple off the concrete surfaces like curtains in the breeze, though their bases stay firm and resistant to any and all attempts to remove them.

but you recognize them instantly. how could you not when you've been looking at them for the past four years – in sketches, in stencils, in ink, on skin?

it's in the dead heat of summer, and the stone is searing against your searching palm over their faces. but as you take in the familiar symbols, you can't help the shiver down your veins that has nothing to do with the temperature.

 

* * *

 

you confront kylo about this during a brief pause between two evening appointments a few days later.

he’s slouched over the light table, filling in the details of the design, when you arrive.

"what of it?" he replies, after you waste no time in letting him know where you’ve been and pointing out the symbols in graffiti match the signature signs he always incorporates into his tattoos.

“ _what of it?_ ” you repeat. annoyance flares up as he continues to bend over the light table, inking in some blue now into the black outline. “you know of it, but you don’t do anything about it?”

the only sound in the pause is the low vibrations of the electricity and the scratching of his pen. sometimes he hums when he works, but not today.

balling your hands into fists, it takes you a few steps to be at his side, slamming your palm on the top of the sheet. careful not to rip it, but still demanding his attention.

“they’re _witch_ magic.”

still, he doesn’t look up, the white light reflecting off his concentrated eyes.

suddenly, you recognize that expression on his face in sharp highlights and shadows. the same one he had made when finn told him ages ago that kylo couldn’t help. the same one he made when he didn’t think you were looking or knew that you saw. the same one with an emotion that you thought you had felt too.

but, now with what you know and his silence, you realize how terribly wrong you are.

now you’re shaking. “kylo…” you can’t – refuse – to believe that this is what that expression had meant. so you whisper, so quietly that it won’t be as humiliating, “or is it because you did it-”

the rest of the words are cut off as he suddenly surges up to meet you. so close, you’re almost chest-to-chest.

he’s always been tall, especially in the last few years when he finally had grown into his broad body, filling out once-gangly limbs, but he has never seemed taller than now. your gasp is lost in your throat, but you don’t move, hand frozen on his paper still, though the roles have now been reversed.

from the corner of your vision – how could you look away from his fierce stare now, even if you had wanted to? – the sheet is smoking blue now beneath his palm.

"witch, wizard, shaman, you can call me whatever," he growls. “doesn’t change the fact that I have done _nothing_ wrong.” any other time it would have been a threatening gesture. but now, it’s almost… pleading. firm, but still appealing to a need for acceptance or understanding.

you take a small step back to meet his piercing gaze more fully, but the small movement seems to snap him out of his momentary passion.

he’s almost apologetic when he turns away to clean up the ruined sheet and grabbing a discolored towel, snuffing out the scorch marks on his palm. as he tries to rub the transferred ink and ashes off his hands, he explains in a low voice, "they're safety runes. I disguise and incorporate them into designs. to heal, to guide…” he peeks up through his dark bangs to look at you. “to _protect_.”

you take it all in, the earnestness of his unspoken but openly expressive language, the strangeness of this moment, the magic of it all.

"then…” you say, hating the slight tremble that manages to creep in, “why did you never give me one?"

his calmness slips and he bites on his lip before swallowing hard.

you know he’s remembering now, of years ago when he had promised, in the wake of your parents’ passing, to stay with you and protect you always. to never leave like so many have in your life and forever pledging to return for you, if you ever should part. he hadn’t finished speaking the promise then, choosing instead to duck his head in vulnerable teenage embarrassment part way through.

not that he needed to. you had already known.

this time, though, he doesn’t look away. nothing of him wavers when he steps even further, back into your space and says, “but I needn't have done it for you.”

he’s close enough now that you can count each individual eyelash on his cheek, alabaster skin stretched taut over cheekbones.

then the look he has when he’s fully focused on the task at hand, on his art before him, is back. the flick of his tongue over his bottom lip to wet it, the furrowed eyebrows, unblinking stare.

“you wouldn’t need it, even if you don’t know it now,” he whispers, his lips barely moving. “but you will. though...” he breaks the steady gaze to wander it over all the edges and corners of your face. “even then, I wouldn’t have done it. not even if you had wanted it.”

when you don’t respond, he rubs his hands together again to clean them. but not before trailing his dyed fingers across your collarbone.

and you can't help shiver at the promise it leaves on you long after he walks away and after the imprint is washed away.

skin-deep, staining longer than ink, and overflowing with something like hope.

**Author's Note:**

> so, I started planning/writing this tattoo artist!au, but I had too many conflicting ideas, so this one ver. then I'm gonna write another one where rey is an artist too, so I hope you look forward to it ~  
> hope you like it, pls come cry with me on tumblr @ soul8


End file.
